Time
by Machinist's Guardian Archangel
Summary: Time can change a lot, whether you're alive to acknowledge it or not. It can heal just as many wounds as it causes. But regardless of the changes, weathering them with a friend always makes it more bearable. A little fic I made for Tumblr, felt like I should make sure it gets posted here. Timeline: ME2, just after Horizon.


**Chapter 8: Stupid Mistakes**

 **26** **th** **of the Month of High Cold**

 **11:57 AM**

"Morning!"

I sit upright, sword already swinging at the sound. Riley leaps out of the room to dodge the blade. I cut nothing but air, thankfully. "Sorry," I immediately say.

"Paranoid?" she laughs. As she enters, she holds her hands up in surrender. "Didn't realize you hated me that much."

I rub my eyes to escape the last drowsiness. "Sleeping was never safe in Coldridge. But I apologize."

"It happens. Don't worry about it." She pats my shoulder before sitting next to me on the bed. "Cap said you've slept enough: you were about to miss lunch. I'll take your share if you don't want it."

"Coffee will be enough. I assume Anderson wants me to leave soon?" As I slip my boots on, I wonder if tonight will be enough to break them in.

"Older geezer wants to talk first, in the galley. I'll make sure no one eats your food before you get there. Other than me, of course." She hops out of the room with a child's optimism. It has been a while since I have seen that.

Ignoring the quiet protests of my stomach, I slip into the outfit provided by Iseult. I secure all but my mask with straps and belt, making me almost ready to leave. The only thing remaining is to pick up my crossbow and pouch from Leonardo. My nose guides me towards the brewing coffee below.

The rest of the ship is already gathered in the galley, most picking at their own plates. Anderson has his next to a map, using it as a reference while talking to Ishmael. Tristan is the only one standing, bringing more meals to the others. I take the empty seat closest to the Captain and start eating an apple. I may take a portion of blood sausage as well, but nothing else. I work better on coffee and a light snack. "Infiltration points?"

Anderson smiles, then adjusts the map so Ishmael and I can see it clearly. "And rendezvous. I doubt they can be one in the same without making your job more difficult. The Abbey's back yard is hardly an ideal way to get into the building."

"And running all the way down Clavering to escape isn't an option," Ishmael elaborates. "Besides, I doubt I can stay at either long without someone spotting me."

I think back to the layout of the Abbey, remembering the security concerns I noted during Jessamine's visits. The back yard makes for a good extraction point, but a sheer wall makes infiltration difficult. Meanwhile, the distance makes the street a terrible exit plan. "A walk could do me some good, refresh myself with the city. Overseers alone will patrol the Abbey's office. How defended will Clavering be?"

"Main avenue will have plenty of City Watch, with two Walls of Light checkpoints. Bottle Street gang owns the side routes, along with anyone else who hasn't evacuated. I haven't heard of any weepers in the district yet, but there's plenty of quarantined buildings to hide them," Anderson says. He feels right at home here. Tactics, planning, preparing an enemy's death. His smile is hardly controlled.

Ishmael points to the Bottle Street Distillery. "Slackjaw is gone until tomorrow, maybe later, trying to get more supplies for his homemade elixir. Should make it easier to slip by, with their boss gone."

"While the cat is away and all that," I say. "Good. Anyone else I should be wary of?"

"Just Granny Rags. She's never done anything, but most of the old blood in Bottle Street think she's a witch. Slackjaw keeps his boys away from her." There's a hint of fear in the young sailor's voice. The forced bravado only accents it.

"You think they're right?" I ask. Curiosity.

He shakes his head. "All of her neighbors caught plague or evacuated, and she's still healthy as a blind horse. She might not be a witch, but she has something I don't want to be a part of."

I shrug. She probably has some family remedy keeping her alive, or a stash of elixir. But if things fall apart, I could hide there. Her home may give them pause. "Burrows has support from more than the Abbey. Are there any other targets I could reach tonight, after I deal with Campbell?"

"We have a few options lined up for later," Anderson says vaguely. "If you don't find Emily, whoever's got her is next on the list. We'll keep attacking those who open themselves up after that. I won't send you anywhere that doesn't have a hole for you to slip through."

"A Parliament supporter visiting a mistress, or a Watch captain trying to travel outside of the city." Not my most subtle attempt at information, but I don't like being kept in the dark.

He nods. "Or scholars giving a public lecture. If we remove them and his financial support, the path should be paved for Emily to return to the throne." More than I had, at least.

"We should leave now, then," I say with a glance to Anderson's watch. "The more time I have, the more opportunities will present themselves."

Ishmael shovels down his lunch, while I drink the coffee Tristan was kind enough to provide. There's enough time for me to eat some blood sausage before the sailor finishes his oversized plate.

"Don't forget this," Leonardo says, handing me the modified crossbow and ammunition pouch. "Rotating chamber on the bottom of the firing mechanism, allows for two bolts to be fired without interruption. Also, resealed your purse, waterproof and with a buckle for quick access. Will continue to create designs, further improve your equipment. Please provide feedback when you return."

"Will do," I nod, returning the gear to my belt. With that taken care of, I follow Ishmael back down to the boat.

The sailor is less cautious on our trip to Clavering Boulevard, driving at a casual pace and waving to the whaling ships coming home. He is a natural at focusing the attention on himself rather than his cloak wearing assistant. I keep my head down and do the menial tasks expected of a fisherman's apprentice: net repair, tool sharpening. It allows me to sit upright in the vessel and enjoy the sea air through the cloth of my mask. Still an unpleasant trip, but better than the first one.

Nightfall and rain beat us to our destination, something I appreciate. The weather will keep most inside. It could be warmer, but Iseult's outfit keeps the worst of the cold out. As a clocktower chimes in the eight o'clock hour, Ishmael brings our craft to a stop by an old river drain. I can see Clavering from here, as well as Watch members loading Plague victims onto a boat. One spots us, but is too distant to notice my weapons or mask. He puts his head back down into his work. Good man.

"Find a lantern, signal me when you're done," the sailor reminds me. "I'll be fishing near the backyard until then. Someone has to catch dinner."

I step off the boat, into the small marsh surrounding the drain. "No hagfish, please. You'll hear from me when I'm ready."

"Stay safe, Corvo."

"You too. Make sure you save room for Emily, in case I find her."

The small boat drifts back to the river as I slink into the weeds. I open my sword and grip it in my right hand. Coldridge was practice, a refresher for my skills. Tonight is the real test. The cold and comfortable blade in my hand, I make my way towards my target.

I count three men on the bridge several meters above me. Busy, tossing bodies into a boat at my right. The fourth supervising the craft is the only one worth my concern: he's between me and the street. I crouch behind an abandoned fish stand, waiting for him to move somewhere his friends cannot support him. Four more bodies fall before he paces in boredom. He has no idea anything is wrong until my arm is around his neck. I hide him from the rain under the bridge, then press on up to the street.

"Which way?" I whisper to myself, using a directory to refresh my memory. Clavering will be covered with Watch, at least on the street level. Rooftops and alleys will be a different story. The Distillery will be mostly unguarded, and is only a hop from the storm drain under the main avenue. From there, I should be able to improvise a way into the Abbey. "It will do."

"Come here, little birdies!" an old voice shouts. "Come on, don't be shy!"

It's the same direction as the Distillery, so I see no harm in investigating. A woman, frail, greyer than anything else. She is throwing some trash from her balcony onto the street, spreading it like bird seed. My eyeglass shows her pupils have hazed over completely. The infamous Granny Rags, terrifying even the toughest vagrants with her imaginary pets.

Ignoring that, I continue past her home. Three of the Bottle Street gang are leaving their hideout and approaching. I climb up an air conditioner unit, then shimmy onto an archway above the alley. None notice, or care, and continue to talk loudly. "She won't put up a fight. She knows better."

"Slackjaw won't like it. Think the old man has a soft spot for her."

"Stupid pisser is afraid of her, believes that shit she's a witch. I say she pays protection, same as the rest of them."

"Maybe she'll be stupid enough to let us in, make it easy. Could say we're here to do her washing. She'd pay us for that, right?"

"She's blind, not stupid."

As the thugs walk beneath my ledge, I send a dart into the back of the leader. He staggers before going down, making the others pause in panic. The one closest breaks my fall and his nose against the concrete. I punch his temple for good measure, drawing my sword with the other hand. The remaining thug swings wildly at my shadow. I parry the slash easily, then drive a heel into his sternum. His wind is gone as I cut the back of his sword hand. The blade falls to the ground, and his injured lungs won't let him scream. One sweeping leg kick to lay him on the ground, a boot to his chin, and he stays down.

I let out a slow breath, relaxing my body. The subtle tension in my muscles eases itself out. That was a stupid mistake, a completely unnecessary risk. Heroic impulses like that will get me in trouble. Now there is a witness who knows my mask. After checking the breathing of my victims, I am content enough with the results. They'll live. I stow my blade, then proceed through the alley.

My ears stay on alert for anyone else in the streets tonight. The rain makes it difficult, but people are more distinct than water dripping from a gutter. Nothing as I turn left at the Distillery. The ventilation system of an apartment is slick, but no one sees me climb it. A few rats brave the weather on the rooftop I slip across quietly. From there, it is a small drop to a light pole on another side street the Watch won't dare patrol. I can see the second checkpoint on Clavering from here, so I crouch on the utility to get an idea of their numbers. Reconnaissance is never a bad idea.

I count four, none particularly decorated. There is a corporal who acts like the boss, but ignores the private tossing rocks at the Wall of Light. Another is walking around the train carriage, making sure no one walks off with cargo. The final soldier tries to do his job and watch the other avenues. All carrying standard pistols and swords. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I carefully fall onto the street that runs beneath Clavering. Access to the storm sewers is through a gate on the right, guarded by rats feasting on a body. There are less shit filled paths to the Abbey.

"Easy, girls," I mutter while skirting the other side of the street. There is a lone goon sharing the lane with me, standing at an alley entrance. He is bigger than most: a lookout, meant to scare off others. Unfortunately, he's guarding the easiest path to the Abbey, and I do not feel like another detour.

Iseult's boots perfectly conceal my steps as I approach. He's pissing in a corner, busy watching the wall and his yellow stream. He struggles against my choke for a few seconds before the lack of air puts him down. His weight makes his impact with the ground hurt that much more, but he'll live. I roll his body closer to the wall, away from the lights, and head into the protected back street.

Three distinct voices are talking, arguing. I press against the wall, barely sticking my eye around the corner. The trio are standing over a guardsman with a slashed neck. One of them crouches to rifle through the pockets of the fallen.

"Cold as a whaler's gaff hand. Fifty years old, at least. This guy fought for the Empress." There's an empty bottle near a pile of trash, just behind the men. And some construction materials nearer I can duck behind.

"Forget his old ass. I can't even remember the Empress. We tagged it plain: under Clavering Street is ours. What's the take?" I load a normal bolt into my crossbow, replacing the poison dart. A distraction, if needed.

"Twenty, plus two elixir." The looter stands, palming some of the coin. They all turn to look at his gains. I take a chance and dart for cover. None notice the shadow that moved.

I keep my head down, crouch walking towards the other side of the alley. "Looked like twenty-five to me!"

The one with the coin holds his hand out as proof. "Look here, it's twenty. That's five each, counting Boo." He's convincing.

"Do I need to check your pockets?!"

A fight would just draw attention, and I can afford none. Leonardo's crossbow is silent as it fires a bolt across the alley. The bottle explodes, and the arrow tumbles into the garbage. All three of the muggers jump and turn towards it. I slip to the alley's exit and onto Clavering before they wisen up.

Rat lights flood the boulevard, removing much of my cover. Some Watch supply crates and a miniature guard post will have to suffice. The metal structure hides all but my mask as I observe the street. Two guards are watching the gate to Holger Square, uncomfortably close to an alarm. I arm the crossbow with sleep darts while looking for an opening. The whale oil canister on the sidewalk would make a sizable distraction. There might be a path through the apartments on the street, if I can get through the plague barricades...

Both guards decide to walk towards my side of the street. I put the guard house between us, then ready my weapons. My breath comes slowly as I count their footsteps. Eight more, seven, six... Three steps from reaching me, one of them turns into the guard post. I level my crossbow at the remaining guard on the street. Less than an arm's length is between his back and me as he saunters past. His colleagues down the street continue tossing rats at the Wall of Light, keep his attention from the shadows.

I hug the wall, almost running in my crouch below the guard house window. My ears focus on what the man inside is doing. He picks up a pen, then puts it to paper. I take the opportunity to slip past the alarm system and through the main gate. The door takes some finesse to shut quietly, but I manage. Only those sleeping should be aware I was even there.

It's been ten months since I set foot in Holger Square. Jessamine was to give a speech, as a part of an Abbey celebration for something with the Ocular Order. The streets were packed full of citizens happy to enjoy the free food. I had spent the morning identifying holes in security and patching them with my own men. While the knowledge will be helpful, the fresh memory of a street full of people now likely dead is unsettling. The man strapped into a stockade at the center doesn't help.

An Overseer stands in front, armed with a grenade, blade, and mask. "How are you doing, Martin? I heard the second night is where the chaffing starts to get to you. Or was it the rats?"

"It's not too bad, though I admit, I miss your wife," Martin replies. He grins with indignation until he notices the assassin in the street. The Overseer is unconscious before he can be warned. I keep the explosive, and stash the body next to Holger's statue.

The mask hides my face, putting the odds in my favor. He's almost trembling at the metal skull staring at him. "Care to answer a few questions, Martin? Or would you like to join your friend?"

His lip quivers. "S-S-Sure. Whatever you want. Anything!"

I put a finger across his mouth. "Quiet. We can't have your friends interrupting us."

He nods. I take my hand away, and he stays silent. "What are Campbell's plans tonight? Is he meeting with someone, sleeping in his room?"

"Meeting. The Watch Captain is coming," he stutters out quickly. "He's got a maid poisoning his glass. Something about replacing the Watch with Overseers, and Curnow's slowing him down."

I blow a low sigh through my mask. The Abbey has sovereign power when it comes to heresy, giving Campbell more means than he should be trusted with. The threat of being burned as a witch is very real, and will motivate someone to do almost anything. I wish this was the first I heard of him abusing his position. "When and where?"

"Midnight, I think. In the meeting room, the one with the Heretic's Artifact over the fireplace."

Perfect. Even with the rain, someone will have left a window open. It will make rescuing an old friend much easier. "Thank you, Martin. Would you prefer to stay here, or should I release you?"

"Out, please!" he begs instantly. "I can't be branded! Not like this!"

"Brand? What are you talking about?"

"The-the Heretic's Brand. They'll burn my face, make the Abbey abandon me! Campbell thinks I helped Attano escape Coldridge, wants me to suffer. It wasn't me: I swear!"

Hmm. The Abbey has influence in Gristol. If they excommunicated someone with a literal branding, he'd be homeless in an hour. Not even the Regent could save him... Maybe Campbell doesn't have to die. Tonight, at least.

"I won't tell anyone about you!" Martin whispers again, bringing my attention back to him.

"Where can I learn more about the brand?" I ask. "Answer quickly, before someone sees us."

"Uh, shit, library! There's a big book of rituals, everything's in there."

"Smart man." I pull the lever just out of his reach, and the shackles fall from the Overseer. He collapses, rubbing his neck. A rash has already formed, but it does not look infected. He should be fine.

"Thank you," he coughs.

"Stay away from the Abbey tonight." I pat his back, then walk to the other side of the square. Only two gates remain between myself and my target. And a small army of Overseers.

The first gate is unlocked, but hardly ideal. It would leave me at ground level, and I doubt there will be much cover on the next street. High ground it is. I spot an air conditioner attached to a storefront, with access to its balcony. Resuming my crouch, I scale the unit's pipes until I am above the street. Four Overseers below, stone guard house at the courtyard gate. None see me in the darkness as I scan for a way past. The abandoned apartments are tempting, but are more problem than solution. Squatters, collapsed walls, and rats are in the way. No, the simplest answer is usually the best.

That is what I tell myself as I leap for the first light pole. There is a clear path to the Abbey's courtyard using the utilities as stepping stones. Assuming I don't misjudge the jump: the fall would hurt. My hands grab the cold rail holding the light aloft. I plant my feet against the vertical support as quietly as I can, then scramble atop the horizontal bar. Three more iterations of this cycle, and the ventilation of the guard house is beneath my feet. None thought to look up.

"Damn lights..." I whisper. The courtyard has four rat lights, making it bright as day. The corners are the only places somewhat dark. My spyglass shows five Overseers wandering the area. Including one who walks beneath me and into the dry guard house. I think back to Serkonos and my nights of thievery as a child. "Always four ways in. Window, door, basement, sewer."

From my vantage point, and with Leonardo's mask, I can see all four possibilities. With the street between me and the Abbey's second floor windows, there's no obvious way to reach it. Front door may be doable, if I skirt the shadows of the courtyard and remain lucky. Same applies to the basement, though the stairs leading into it are closer. That leaves a storm drain to my left, just outside the lights of the courtyard. It should have maintenance access from the basement. "Please don't be full..."

I pause to listen. The Overseer inside the guard house has been joined by a friend, talking about where to drink later. They do not notice the shadow drop from above. And they'll never remember it darting down a set of stairs to the drain. One in the courtyard could see me, but the lights work in my favor. His eyes are adjusted to the well-lit area he patrols, not the darkness just beyond it.

The storm drain is a massive tube meant to deal with the flood plain the Abbey resides in, and designed to weather much larger storms. It looks like maintenance workers have not been here for some time, letting the protective grate fall away.

"Thank you for saving me some work, gentlemen," I murmur and climb into the tube. There's enough room to comfortably stand in here, but I stay low. The water is only ankle deep, at least. By keeping to one side, I keep out of the worst. Apart from one access grate above, no one has a view of me. One of the patrolling Overseers walks right over me in a bored pace. If I become the Lord Protector again, the Abbey is going to hear about this.

I follow the tube through two turns, then run into an obstacle. This tunnel ends, joining the main one that allows access to the Office. Someone decided to board up the junction. There's some give where it has been drilled into the wall, thanks to mold eating away at it. I draw my sword and use it as a wedge between the nails. With a quick pull, the first beam falls off. The clatter of wood striking metal echoes in my tunnel. I draw my crossbow, ready to fire at anyone curious enough to investigate.

Crouched into the darkest corner I can find, I aim at the grate above. My eyes don't leave that spot as I count my breaths and listen. After thirty, my pulse slows to normal. At fifty-three, the Overseer approaches. He doesn't look down. Seventy-two, he walks away. I slip the crossbow back into my coat. Another stupid mistake. "I won't get lucky a third time."

With much greater care this time, I pry off another board and quietly set it on the ground. With the two gone, there's enough of a gap I can slip through easily. Riley was right: I did lose significant weight in Coldridge. The second tunnel is significantly smaller and more cluttered than the first, but I still fit in a crouch. It looks like construction materials were left, probably from maintenance of the tunnel itself. Roughly forty meters ahead, there's a chain leading up into the Abbey. "The ladder has to be broken," I sigh, gripping it.

My memory was correct. The maintenance access comes out just inside the basement. I shake off the worst of the rain, then test my boots on the floor. Iseult's boots don't slip or squeak. Good. I look around the room to make sure I have my bearings. There's a set of stairs leading back up to the courtyard, then a door into the interior of the basement. Either one will get me deeper into the Abbey, but only one will keep me dry.

"Damn it. Hounds," I mutter when I notice at the placard reading "Kennel" on the steel wall. With the rain, most of the dogs will be locked in their pens. I could dodge their sight and ears, but not their noses. Even in cages, they'd bark until someone came to investigate. The kennels aren't an option.

"Just when I thought I was out of the rain." I draw my sword, and crouch walk up the stairs to the courtyard. Only two outside: one at the main door, and the one near the sewer grates. Both are sticking to the lit area, never examining the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. There's a path in the darkness, if I stay low and move quickly. I wait until the patrol is looking the other way before slinking along the darkened wall. The irony of hiding in the shadow of the Seven Strictures is not lost on me.

There's a small gap under the stairs leading up to the plaques, large enough for me to slip into and wait on the guard to make his rounds again. It's not a particularly tense break, but I keep my sword ready. As he turns his back again, I hug the remainder of wall in a dash for the door. There's an extruded wall that blocks the straight path, with a basement window left open. Boiler access, no way into the main building. But it gives me a way to avoid the center of the courtyard. The wet ground allows me to slide into the access room easily.

I land on my feet quietly, crouched and ready. My eyes scan for anyone unlucky enough to be in here, but find no one. The sound of arguing reaches my ears. I draw my crossbow, aiming at the source. This maintenance room has a hallway, leading towards the Abbey. A barred window at the end removes the possibility of slipping in. But this extra length isn't on the building's blueprints. Neither is the room beyond the window. I creep forward, wondering if I am lucky enough to find Emily.

"I'm telling you this is a waste of time! We risked getting caught in Campbell's inner sanctum for nothing!" one voice proclaims. My glass eye pressed to a gap in the window reveals a hidden storage room. The heretical artifacts, gaudy paintings, and a mattress hidden beneath discarded bras explains its purpose clearly enough.

"It was worth a try," a different voice says. Two Overseers are digging through the room's boxes in search of something. "It would be easier to steal the book from here than off Campbell."

I hear the pathetic excuse for melody coming from the audiograph at the other side of the room. Campbell's terrible taste in art extends to music as well. His personal escape to break the Strictures. He used to have a private room at the Golden Cat for the same purpose. The Rat Plague must have made it safer for him to whore about here.

Jessamine was furious when I told her about the previous room. She was not particularly devout to the Abbey, but she understood what it meant to the Empire. It was a unifier, something so many disconnected cultures could have common ground with. And for some, it was a way of life and death. The High Overseer was expected to be the epitome of those ideals. A blatant disrespect to the position, even in secret, could not be tolerated. We had been working on a plan to replace him for weeks. All we lacked was clear evidence to dethrone him publicly. We needed more the testimony of one of my spies.

"Shit," one of the Overseers mutters. "Might as well stay here, right? Enjoy his wine, wait for his business with the Captain to be over. Otherwise, we might be the ones who have to carry the body."

Martin was telling the truth, it seems. According to the clock on the wall, I have an hour to save Geoff. At least I time to research the Heretic's Brand before the meeting, if I move quickly.

"Why not. Find a white, red gives me... Did you hear that?"

His companion cocks his head. "Someone's coming. Let's get out of here." The pair leave in a rush, through a door I can't see from here. I double back down the hallway, towards the rain again.

The guards in the courtyard have hardly moved from where I last saw them. I watch from the window, taking my time to survey the area for others. Alarm station by the front door I missed earlier, nothing else. As the patrol investigates something on the other side of the courtyard, I climb out and dash towards the door. The guard assigned here is leaned against the wall, asleep upright. He doesn't notice me sneak behind him, unplug the alarm from its generator, and bend the cable to hide the disconnect. The front door is unlocked, opening at a gentle push. No creak betrays me slipping in.

Three members of the church, one Overseer presiding over them in the ornate foyer. A special meeting for those with questions or doubt their faith. The echo of the chamber obscures the words, not that I care to listen. Two small rooms on either side of me, dedications to noteworthy Overseers inside, large rooms with staircases leading up on the other side of them. Extra footsteps say there are other Overseers patrolling, just out of sight. The right side of the building holds the library and conference room, so I slink that way.

One patrol in this shrine room, reading plaques. There's a convenient bookcase I slip behind before he can see me. Crossbow and sword drawn, I count my breaths and wait. After the seventeenth, he resumes his route. He walks around the bookshelf, then towards the front door. Once he's in the next memorial room, I creep towards the staircase.

Two more guards in this room. One is pacing the stairs, the other down here tinkering with a door knob. Basement and kennel access beyond there, along with a likely entrance to Campbell's secret room. The black book is still my best chance finding Emily, but I'd rather not leave all my eggs in that basket. When the patrol on the stairs leaves us, I slip behind the one by the door and strangle him. His explosives find their way into my equipment after I drag him through the door.

I close my eyes and listen to the guard above. He comes back down the stairs, pausing halfway to observe the room. I take the handle of my sword and tap the metal door just loud enough for him to hear. The sound seems to get his attention as he walks this way. I continue tapping just regularly enough to keep him curious.

When his footsteps are just outside the door, I hug the wall beside the entrance. As he opens the door, my fist fractures his sternum without warning. It knocks the wind out of him, bending him over. I drag him inside, then drive the grip of my sword into the back of his head. He falls asleep without a sound. I wait for a minute, listening to the sermon outside. No one heard anything. Perfect.

The kennel is down a set of stairs, then beyond another steel door. Other than that, and the statue of an Overseer with a jeweled eye, the small hallway is unremarkable. My estimate puts Campbell's secret room just beyond the stone bust. I run my hand across the wall and notice slight ridges that form the outline of a door.

"Is he really this stupid?" I ask, pressing the gem on the statue. Sure enough, part of the wall slides away to reveal the alcove. The decorations and terrible music confirm my suspicions. "Apparently."

The two sleeping Overseers will be very confused when they wake in Campbell's hidden quarters, but it's the easiest way to assure they remain hidden. I find a few letters from the Madam at the Golden Cat, more tacky paintings, and some artifacts that would wualify as witchcraft. But nothing about Emily. "Damn it." To make the detour worth something, I steal a jeweled wine decanter and a large coin purse. Leonardo won't mind have some more funding for his inventions.

I close the door behind me, then head back to the staircase. The service is still going, distracting most as I head to the upper floor. There are two hallways, one going left and the other straight. No places to hide in the narrow hallway, but the hanging lights and air vents are sturdy enough to support me. Another detail my security team had to watch during Jessamine's visit. We countered it by covering the supports with grease and spring razors, trusting someone in the Abbey to come up with a more permanent solution. Thankfully, they ignored that order. I scale a convenient book shelf, then crouch on the vents above.

Before investigating that Heretic's Brand, I check the meeting room Curnow and Campbell will be in. This door, like most others in the Abbey, has a transom window large enough for me to slip through. A clock on the far wall shows another thirty minutes until they are supposed to meet, and little else in the room. No wine yet, thankfully. The light fixture may give me a good place to ambush them when the time comes. Until then, there is no point in waiting here.

The vents take me above the patrolled hallways, back towards the Library. Two guards below: it is easier to avoid them than leave them sleeping in a corner. Thankfully, the straight path makes reaching the library simple. Two floors in the room, both with a single Overseer. Large bookcases fill the one below, along with two large desks. Upper level has several private desks and areas for researchers. The one almost above me is reading and talking to himself, while the other is doing patrols. As he walks below me, I drop behind him and choke him to sleep. I carry his body upstairs, behind the investigator.

The Overseer detective is leaned over a table and notes, talking possibilities with himself. I appear to be the subject of his conversation: recounting my movements, where I could be now. There is just enough restraint in me to not laugh aloud. I suffocate him as well, then tuck them into a corner of the reading room. I take the opportunity to check his notes, just to see how far off the investigation is.

"Returned from official deployment of two months. Last confirmed sighting: sewers under Coldridge…" I mutter, reading aloud. "No suspected alliances. Search of the Estate District recommended, based on subject's prior position of privilege." One less thing to worry about, it seems.

I walk back down to the lower level, carefully listening for more guards. None seem close enough for me to worry. In a quiet meandering, I search the library for the book Martin mentioned. There's a section dedicated to lesser-known rituals and special occasions. The thickest volume is also the most weathered, and seems to be what the captive was talking about. I pull it from the high shelf and thumb through its index on a table. I set my crossbow by my hand while I read, just to be safe.

In the last third of the book sits the section I need: punishments. Listed along with the most severe is the Heretic's Brand. "Reserved for those Overseers who have committed heinous acts against the order. Forever unwelcome to the Abbey, cannot receive aid or shelter." I feel a small grin form on my face. "The brand is applied to the forehead, so all can see the sins of the recipient. The Interrogation Room here at the Office of the High Overseer stands ready for the branding ritual. The Brand itself is to be stored in the same room."

Campbell does not have to die tonight. But he might wish I killed him outright soon enough.

I start to leave out the other door of the Library, quietly checking for more Overseers. Two of them were talking, but go their separate ways. Thankfully, the Interrogation Room is directly across the hallway. A quick dash, and I'm in the concrete chamber. Bars to trap a prisoner surround the room, and are thankfully unlocked. The only furniture in this part of the room is a chair to hold victims and tools to extract confessions. None with the distinct design of the Brand, unfortunately.

The viewing room above looks promising. More bars separate it and the room I am in, but there's a gap above I can slip through. All that it takes is a quick climb up the bars, then over the top. Actual furnishings fill this area, including interrogation notes, a desk for paperwork, and an audiograph. A quick rifling through the drawers yields the Brand, distinctive with its three-pronged head. There's a small sheath on it to prevent accidentally branding someone, and comes with a collapsible handle. Convenient.

I surrender to curiosity and play the tape in the machine. "What we have is a man, aged thirty perhaps, slender," says the interrogator. "Unusual tattooing on the face and chest, probably superstitious heresy. Wearing some sort of industrial mask when we brought him in, stolen out of one of the whaling factories from the look of it."

My breath catches in my throat. One of the men who took Jessamine from me. And who kidnapped Emily. I lean in, anxious to hear more. "You're one of Daud's men, aren't you? Caught at last." Daud… Serkonan name? If he's one of the leaders, he can tell me who was there.

"What's wrong with his eyes? Are you with us?" The mic picks up the sounds of seizure and convulsions beside the interrogator. "He's gone. Here it is; a pin, hidden in one of his gloves. Subject administered some kind of poison. Effects seem to be lethal."

I slam the desk. "Fucker!" I whisper. A chance at answers, gone. They should have known better, taken everything from him. Any assassin worth his salt will have a way out. They should've known that, stopped him. Now my best lead at Jessamine's killers is crematorium smoke.

I step back and breathe. Anger won't help anything. Think… If the Abbey has some idea who these people are, so will the Watch. Curnow will know something. When I save him, maybe I can convince him to tell me something. I'd rather not have to interrogate him to get the information, but there's other ways. Maybe I can use that poison of Campbell's tonight.

Rushed footsteps come up the stairs behind me. Overseer, investigating the noise. I scale the bookcase near me, getting out of view just in time. The guard draws his sword on the desk I stood beside. His metal mask does little to protect him from the floor as I tackle and stun him. I choke him to ensure he stays asleep. Inconvenient, but at least he gave me something to take my anger out on.

If my internal clock is correct, I should have about ten minutes to reach the meeting room. I leave the guard where he is and climb back down into the interrogation room. I open the straps on the chair, making it ready for Campbell, then slip back out into the library. Another Overseer is in here to search for his friends. I stash his body with them, then climb back through the window over the door. The vents above the hallway ensure I am not disturbed on my way back.

In the conference room, things have already been set into motion. A maid slipped in, leaving the wine glasses for the leaders. I drop down and inspect the drinks with my nose. Nothing seems different between them, but that means little. The more expensive the poison, the harder it is to detect. Or there's a chance that everything I've heard is rumor… I will not leave Geoff's life to that chance.

With fewer than five minutes remaining until the meeting, I choose the light fixture as my perch to ambush from. It should put me behind one of the drinkers, and give me an angle on the other. I lower myself into a crouch, drawing the crossbow in my left. Two darts, primed for the targets when they enter. I keep my sword ready in my right hand, should I be lucky enough to have Curnow's back to me. It will be the easiest way to keep him conscious and not yelling for reinforcements.

I slow my breathing, and count my heart beats. If I focus on that, I can forget the stakes. Forget the emotion pushing me tonight. Forget one of these men helped steal my life and Empress away from me. Forget there's an army ready to have my head if I am caught. Forget that one more stupid mistake will likely kill myself and an old friend. It's just an ambush on two targets, one to capture, one to save.

* * *

I wish I could tell you loyal minions that it wouldn't be a long wait until the next chapter. That would likely be a lie, unfortunately. I've kinda got a wedding next weekend: mine. Which is part of the reason I was slow getting this chapter out. Even at this moment, I've got Facebook chats and texts going between groomsmen, our DJ, the venue owner, and my family that's flying in. So yeah, it's a small miracle when I get an hour of peace and quiet to try and write. I'll do my best to get a draft done of the next chapter before next weekend, but I make no promises. Let's just say I'm likely going to have three hangovers, two D&D sessions (with the world's most angst-filled, stab-happy halfling rogue my party has ever encountered), and a new tattoo before I finally say "I do."

But I shall not abandon you minions, I promise. Writing this in the small breaks I get is about the only thing keeping me sane. And, for the Mass Effect fans that transferred over here, I've got a small piece I'm aiming to get done Wednesday or so. Tumblr celebration and prompt found me, figured I should contribute. Hope that placates your guys while I'm freezing my ass off in Canada. We shall see if my Northern neighbors are as nice as I keep hearing. (Little upset I'm going right after hockey season, though. I enjoy a good American game of the sport, and kinda want to see how the creators of the sport do.) ~MGA


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